


Sensory Deprivation

by AteanaLenn



Series: The (maybe) forever WIPs [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed I - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Sort Of, Tags may be added, Time Travel, don't know if a twosome or threesome, gen so far, ghost - Freeform, ignore the Juno plot line, might turn into slash, set during Assassin's Creed I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-27 22:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15034376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteanaLenn/pseuds/AteanaLenn
Summary: It's been a month and Desmond is still exploring memories of the Crusade under Vidic's order. His jailors ignore him when they aren't stuffing him in the machine, the blinding white of his rooms is turning him crazy, and his time in the Animus is the best part of his days.He just wishes that he had someone to talk to.“Who are you?” Malik cries one day while Desmond isn't paying attention to the Assassins' conversation, about a year after that mess at the Temple of Solomon.Somehow, Desmond has turned into a ghost, instead of a mind passenger.He would still rather be a ghost in Jerusalem, than a living doll at Abstergo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the first Assassin's Creed game. Or even, during the first half of the game. It assumes that there is no rush, no Juno/sun flare plotline, and that no one is looking for/waiting for Desmond.  
> As I said in the tags, this is not beta read, and since English isn't my first language, my apologies for any remaining mistakes :)  
> -

Desmond doesn’t actually know when it happened the first time.

He ‘is’ in Jerusalem, the first time he notices that there’s something  _ weird _ going on. Well, weirder than ‘a corporation captured me to put me in a device they built using info from “Those Who Came Before” (which, by itself, leaves him ????), and said device enables me to (re)live the life of my ancestor and for the scientist to watch said memories.’

He’d say this is the crazy plot from some semi-historical/sci fi novel, but he’s living it, so…

The point is, Jerusalem.

Where Malik is chewing out Altaïr (again) for something (Desmond wasn’t really paying attention, he’s tired and Altaïr’s missions are repetitive, he wanted  _ a break _ , okay).

Not that Malik ‘chewing out’ Altaïr is anything new. The man holds a grudge the size of the Empire State building and Desmond kind of understand it. Losing an arm and  _ his baby brother _ because Altaïr was a pompous ass isn’t something that Desmond would easily forget either. He’s actually surprised with how well they still work together, after… all of it.

Still, Desmond is lonely and tired and stressed out, and he’d rather not experience the cutting side of Malik’s tongue alongside Altaïr. 

He drifts off, trying to ignore Malik’s harsh voice and the guilt twisting inside his/their/Altaïr’s chest, mentally stepping aside. He’s going to concentrate on the colorful pillows laid in the corner of Malik’s bureau, they look inviting, he wishes that he could lay down and-

“What the hell?!”

Malik’s tone is rising yet again, sharp and commanding. Desmond wishes that his brain would inexplicably stop understanding Arabic or whichever language they’re using. He doesn’t even know, he just somehow understood Altaïr and the others, when he became able to see his ancestor’s memories and now everything feels  _ real and solid and true _ and that’s freaking him out even worse than the rest. Lucy has hinted about side-effects and deaths of previous subjects, but Desmond is good at hiding his head in the sand. And she’s also said that they’ve never worked with a subject as synchronized with an ancestor. Desmond barely had any trouble to fit with the Animus’ environment, except for that very first time when they tried to make him jump way too far along the memories.

“Who are you?” Malik asks (orders).

Desmond can hear him even though he’s put his hands over his ears at some point. It makes him curious. Who would dare to come in the lair of the Assassins and-

There’s no one else but Altaïr and Malik in the room, when Desmond turns around.

He does realize two things though. First, he’s not “inside” Altaïr anymore. He’s not watching through the man’s eyes anymore, he’s actually standing next to those colorful pillows. It would be enough of a shock, as he’s only supposed to be able to react at Altaïr’s memories, not take action himself, but…

_ They are watching him _ .

Desmond stares back for a long moment (mouth probably hanging open, too, but at this point, it’s not a priority). Then he turns around, because they  _ must _ be looking at something or someone else.

But there’s no one and nothing else but the wall behind him, one of Malik’s beautiful map pinned at eye level.

“Who. Are. You?” Malik repeats slowly. “Where did you come from, ghost?”. He’s got a sword -or rather, a saber- like Altaïr’s in hand, pointing straight at Desmond over the counter. Altaïr is standing at the ready too, hidden blade out and angled menacingly toward Desmond.

“And why do you look like me?” Altaïr adds.

The Assassin steps forward, looming over Desmond even though he’s still some way away and not that much taller than him, if at all. 

Desmond raises his hands up, trying for a ‘I come in peace’ stance.

“I’m Desmond. And I’m not a ghost. Or I don’t think so, anyway?” he says.

Or tries to say. No sounds comes from his mouth and both Assassins frowns at him.

Figures. 

Here he is, thrown almost a millennium back in time, with no body to his name and now no voice either. He doesn’t know if he’s cracked and his brain is making up things because he’s so lonely in Abstergo’s white-on-chrome prison. He’s been their ‘guest’ for over  a month, by his count (which probably isn’t completely accurate) and he can’t stand the brightness of his cell anymore. Visiting Jerusalem and the other cities of Altaïr’s time is a relief and feels more real these days than the cold of the Animus. Even if Altaïr’s Assassin work is actually a lot more boring than he’d have expected.

Malik and Altaïr are both frowning at him, but Malik at least doesn’t seem as ready to jump over the counter, weapon first, anymore.

“Did you kill anyone in your Bureau lately?” Altaïr asks.

“No, I didn’t. I know better than to lead enemies in my home,” Malik retorts immediately, looking like he’d very much like to swing his sword at his ‘brother’.

“Speak, ghost.”

Desmond swallows and say again, “my name is Desmond.”

Nothing comes out.

It’s just another thing on top of the rest. The proverbial ‘last straw’.

Desmond sighs, rubbing his face harshly. At least, he’s still corporeal.

Fuck everything.

He turns away and let’s himself flop on the those inviting cushions, blocking everything else and ignoring the Assassins. 

“He cannot communicate?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, try to get rid of it.”

Altaïr snorts inelegantly. “ ‘Get rid of it’? How? And why would  _ I _ . This is  _ your _ Bureau.”

“And you are the fighter. I’m only the head of this Bureau.”

“Oh, now you will sit back and let me fight? Do you believe me stupid enough to think that ‘it’ made you weak? You are as good a fighter as I am.”

Desmond hides a smile in a pillow, as silence falls behind him for a moment. Malik and Altaïr’s relationship has been pretty horrible at the beginning of Desmond’s visits, following that mess at the Temple of Solomon, but they’re growing closer again. He couldn’t say why, but it makes him happy, that they might become friends again, eventually. Time helps fade old pains, even the worst, and by Desmond’s reckoning, almost a year has passed, give or take a month.

A whisper of clothes next to his head makes him jerk up and away, half rolling back only to be stuck against the wall.

Altaïr is kneeling at his side, a hand hovering next to his shoulder.

A hand hovering  _ in his shoulder _ .

A keening sound resonates in the room. It takes a moment to Desmond to realize that he’s the one making it (and that the others don’t react to it. But he’s ignoring that). He’s too busy staring at where Altaïr’s hand is passing through his body. The pillows’ embroidery is scratching his palms and a jutting brick is digging in his back, but his lungs feel like they’re being squeezed by some unseeing force because  _ Altaïr cannot touch him _ .

He’s out of his blindingly white and cold prison, finally surrounded by people who actually see him, instead of just pushing him toward the machine and then staring at their computers, but he cannot be heard and he cannot touch. He’s traded one sensory deprivation for another.

“... He’s really a ghost.” Malik says, slowly moving next to the other Assassin.

“Apparently.”

“And we cannot hear him.”

The room grows silent again. Desmond hides his face in the cushions again. If he doesn’t see, he can almost imagine…

“It seems to distress him.”

The bells ring outside.

“I must go.” Altaïr says from farther away. 

Desmond hasn’t even heard him move.

“Yes. This is the only window of opportunity for this target. Go.”

A light scraping sound is the only hint that Altaïr has jump out of the Bureau. The man moves like a ghost.

Desmond releases a shuddering breath. They aren’t pulling him out of the Animus, so they might not be seeing this. Vidic would never allow him to let Altaïr out of his sight. He still doesn’t know what they’re looking for, but it’s something that Altaïr found or saw or touched or something. It’s definitely linked to Altaïr.

The fountain bubbles merrily away in the entrance ‘room’ and Malik is back behind his counter, going by the scratching of his quill on the rough paper. Desmond keeps his eyes closed, breathing  slowly the Bureau’s warm scent of perfume and spices and ink. It’s soothing.

/

“-still here,” a voice murmurs behind Desmond.

It’s not enough to fully wake him up. He’d rather keep dozing peacefully. He’s comfortable and warm and he hasn’t felt this safe in… weeks.

“Yes. He fell asleep shortly after you left.”

“Do you have any idea what to do with him?”

“I cannot touch him, he cannot explain why he is present. No, I do not have a new idea. As far as I know, he isn’t one of our target. He doesn’t bear the marks of an assassination, his clothes are foreign. And he looks like he could be your younger brother, of course.”

“Yes, that.”

“Altaïr,” Malik eventually asks, “do you have family?”

“None left alive. And no brothers anyway.”

“He  _ has to _ be of your blood though. You don’t simply look like each other. He could be your twin, if he didn’t appear slightly younger. Or maybe less weathered.”

“And yet, I have no close family. My mother died while giving birth to me and my father…”

“I have heard rumors.” Malik says almost delicately.

“Yes. As far as I know, if it hadn’t been asked of him, to keep our population alive, my father would have rather not touch another person at all.”

“There’s little chance that he would have sought out another woman after…”

“There’s  _ no _ chance. I think he would have rather exiled himself than go through… that, again.”

“Very well. Uncles? Aunts?”

“None.”

“This makes no sense.”

“His clothes make no sense. And he knows enough to be afraid of me.”

“Or maybe seeing a full grown man bearing weapons lean over him startled him.”

“Maybe,” Altaïr concedes. “But I have a feeling that he knows who we are.”

Desmond can almost feel the weight of their eyes on his back.

He sighs then pushes himself up. He sits there, almost buried in the colorful pillows, looking at the other men.

They look back in silence for a moment.

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about feeding him,” Malik says eventually.

Desmond laughs for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, Desmond is still in old-time-Jerusalem.

He can’t touch people but he can pick up and move objects, he can’t get sunburns but he can feels the heat of the sun. He can’t talk but he can hear. He can smell different scents, move around the Bureau’s rooms and on the roof.

It’s the most freedom he’s had in weeks. It feels like heaven.

“Good morning, Desmond,” Malik says. 

Desmond can also write. Not in Arabic unfortunately, but the Brotherhood has been dealing with the Crusaders for long enough that learning the basics of English and French is only common sense. Malik knows enough to read Desmond’s written name and sound the letters aloud, with nods and head shakes when he gets it right or wrong. The pronunciation isn’t quite right still, but it’s more than close enough for Desmond’s taste. Someone talks  _ to _ him and that’s certainly more than he’s had while at Abstergo.

And the way Altaïr says his name is almost hilariously bad.

‘Good morning’, he mouths, still unable to brush off the habit. Mostly, he uses gestures and pointing to get the idea across. It makes him wish that he’d learn American Sign Language, but at the same time, how would he have taught it to Malik and Altaïr anyway?

The Brotherhood’s fist-on-the-heart gesture has become his ‘hello’ now.

“I take it that Altaïr hasn’t come back yet?”

Desmond shakes his head, taking a seat at the counter.

Malik already has a large piece of blank paper out, ready to be drawn upon. 

Desmond likes watching him. It’s soothing, the way the man swipes his quill over the material, smooth and unhurried. Malik doesn’t only draws accurate maps, it turns out. When there’s no urgent need, he’ll draw abstract places and lands or mandala like ornamental geometric art, or make a sort of preview of the maps to come. Desmond thinks that it might be a way to plan the size of the map and the placement of the points of interests and landmarks, without worrying about scale yet. It looks a bit like calligraphy art. 

It’s hypnotic. And relaxing.

Malik frowns down at the counter, then puts down his inkwell. “I should go buy more food, before he gets here,” he says, already turning away. 

Desmond can’t stop his sad frown and Malik laughs aloud.

“Do not worry friend, I’ll be back soon enough. Be sure to hide away if you hear something though. Just in case it is another brother.”

Desmond rolls his eyes with a little huff. It’s not like he ever  _ hears _ them coming in, anyway.

Malik is nice enough to keep his amusement down to a smirk.

“I’ll leave the Bureau under your watch then, Desmond.”

/

Waiting is boring. 

There’s little else to do than poke around. Malik has a lot of books, but Desmond can’t actually read them. He’s learned how to speak Arabic somehow by osmosis while synchronizing with Altaïr, but reading wasn’t something usually needed during the man’s missions. Desmond does admire the calligraphy. Arabic is a beautiful written language. 

There’s not much else though. Space to receive people and the amenities that go with it, lots of weapons and equipment to take care of them. 

Though the Bureau is a lot larger than it had looked like while Desmond was in the Animus. Maybe because the machine focuses on important facts, maybe because Altaïr doesn’t usually linger past the entrance and the main room.

The Bureau itself is set at the top of the building, along with Malik’s own room, on the other side of the floor, set apart for privacy. There’s a door in a corner of the main room, leading to the lower levels which also belong to the Brotherhood. Desmond hasn’t visited them because they’re not sure how people would react to the weird ghost that haunts the Jerusalem Bureau, but he knows that there’s a communal kitchen, bedrooms, and a large training area. Probably all the necessities for a medical emergency too.

“Desmond.”

With a silent scream, Desmond whirls around, one hand on his heart. 

Altaïr nods at him as he lets his gear down.

Desmond takes a moment to appreciate the fact that nobody could hear what would have been a magnificently high scream before returning the greeting. 

“Malik is in his rooms?” Altaïr glances back at Desmond’s for the answer then closes his eyes and cracks his back. “Gone to the market then.”

Altaïr looks tired, Desmond muses absently. He’s not sure what was the man’s last mission, he hasn’t paid much attention, but Altaïr has been gone for two days and by the looks of him, he hasn’t taken the time to rest since then. Not that Desmond would expect him to rest away from the Bureau anyway. Altaïr doesn’t seem to be the kind to trust some random rooftop garden or other hidden nook. During the time when Desmond rode along, the Assassin only ever rested in the Bureaus. And even then, he spent as little time as possible in Damascus’ and barely more in Acre. Not that Desmond blames him, with the other Brothers’ attitude. As much as they clashed, Altaïr always seem to trust Malik a lot more than anyone else, even after…

Then Desmond remembers that Malik brought the washing basin in the back yesterday and goes to fetch it.

Altaïr is stretching when he comes back, hood down for once. It’s shocking, to see how much alike they are.

The Assassin takes the basin with a nod and Desmond retreats back inside the Bureau, letting him take care of the sweat and dust of the days and nights on the prowl.

/

Malik takes one look at the cushions and silverware that Desmond set around the low table and says, “I take it that Altaïr is back then.”

“Yes,” Altaïr answers as he joins them inside, dressed in a clean uniform, his face half hidden once again.

“How went the information gathering?”

“I found two merchants with possibly linked to Dabir, but something feels wrong.”

“You might want to try the area around the Mosque. There are rumors about a group of not-so-scholar scribes who might be loitering around the holy place.”

Desmond sits quietly between them. He doesn’t feel the need to eat or drink as he currently is, but it’s only polite to join them.

And he might have noticed that their conversations are much more civil with a third party acting as buffer between them. Even in silence.

“Near the Mosque? I wouldn’t have thought that there’d be enough space to hide dozen of people.”

“No, I don’t think they’re keeping there the slaves they stole, even as Talal’s body hadn’t grown cold yet. But those ‘scholars’ are new to the city. They might be connected to the new slavers.”

Altaïr frowns down at his bowl, but doesn't comment.

Malik nods as if the other man had spoken aloud. “Yes, it still astounds me how dark people’s souls must be, to take over the suffering of other humans with barely a second thought.”

Desmond nods too, pulling his legs close to his torso. There are enough horrors on the news every day in his time. And Abstergo itself is a horrible place. He knows that he isn’t their first ‘test subject’. Vidic calls him fifteen. Desmond supposes that it means that there are fourteen dead bodies somewhere, whose brains got scrambled until they couldn’t take it anymore, either by the machine or the blinding white isolation chamber that were his rooms.

“I’ll check with the others tomorrow, see if they heard anything.”

“See if they have any investigations for you too. I know that Omar has been looking for a second brother, to help him inspect a warehouse complex down south.”

Altaïr’s mouth twists, probably at the idea that the other can’t do the job by himself (which makes sense. Desmond remembers those warehouses and they’re extensive), but doesn’t comment.

“No answer? Did you finally learn to curb your overly prideful tongue, novice?”

Desmond rolls his eyes.

“Would you rather I tell you exactly what I think of them?”

“Oh, please, go ahead, I am curious about what the mighty Altaïr’s advice would be.”

“This is-”

The low table screeches as Desmond harshly pushes it back. The Assassins watch in silence as their ghost fusses with the bowls, adding more food in them and refilling their glasses too. Then he pulls the table back in place and holds up Malik’s bowl with a neutral face.

“Yes. Thank you, Desmond.”

The Assassins finish eating their meal in silence and once again, Desmond feels the need to roll his eyes at them.

Later, he follows Altaïr outside and sits next to the man on the cushions, in a corner of the walled courtyard, in the shade. It’s not the quietest place, with the noise of the crowds outside and the possibility that another Assassin will drop through the roof at any time, but Altaïr seems to prefer the freedom. The man doesn’t say anything against Desmond’s presence and lies down, asleep in minutes.

Desmond still wonders what made Altaïr trust him so, in barely a few days. Was it Malik’s acceptance? The fact that Desmond cannot actually touch him (but he could touch his weapons. Though Altaïr would know and wake up immediately, knowing him)? Something about the way they look so alike? 

Desmond sighs and shrugs to himself. He gives a nod at Malik as the man passes by the doorway, on his way to the counter, and closes his eyes too.

/

“De-synchronizing, mister Miles! I would have thought that you knew better by now.”

The whirring noise of the Animus is loud in Desmond’s ears. Vidic’s voice feels even louder. The man is leaning over Desmond’s stretched out form, glaring down at him. Everything is glaringly bright around them, barely offset by the dark gray clouds visible through the windows, but the room doesn’t feel cold enough, in that way that would mean that Desmond has spent hours lying there while in the Animus.

Did he fall asleep and dream in the blink of an eye? Did the Animus’ loading screen twist in something weird? 

He barely holds himself back from screaming and begging to be sent back. At best, Vidic would merely look down at him in contempt. At worst, they would decide that something weird happened and it would mean more poking and prodding and experimenting. 

“Concentrate, Desmond,” Lucy says from his other side, not even looking up from her computer. “Let’s try again. Watch your synchronization.”

Desmond takes a shuddering breath and looks up at the ceiling, waiting for the machine to pull him in his genetic memories once again. The warmth of Jerusalem lingers on his skin and he can almost hears the barely there sounds of Altaïr’s breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> There we go! I'm trying to get into the habit of writing a bit in the morning, before work. So far, so good, we'll see how long it last. But it did help me get a new chapter out quickly ;)  
> Please, leave a review on your way out! ♥


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sliiightly shorter chapter, but I got to a good ending point, so... :D  
> also, warning for panic attack  
> -

“Enough! Enough, you are  _ useless _ today, mister Miles!”

Desmond closes his eyes, turning his head away.

His body can’t decide if he’s hot or cold and he feels half a moment away from spilling his guts on the ground. Hopefully, over Vidic’s shoes.

“This is the seventh time you’ve desynchronized today,  _ seventh! _ And in between, you’ve barely managed to stay connected a few minutes! This is absolutely unacceptable.”

“Warren, please-”

“No! If he cannot concentrate, then he is of no use for us.” Vidic’s shoes squeak as he turns away, taking a few steps toward the door. “I’ll let it go  _ this time _ , mister Miles. You get one single day off. I hope for you that tomorrow’s session is more productive…”

The automatic doors don’t quite give the same ‘definitive’ feeling as a good old slamming, but Desmond still gets the message. He sighs, feeling weary to his bones. He still hasn’t managed to quench the longing feeling for Jerusalem.

Lucy shakes her head. She glances at Desmond a couple of times, but doesn’t order him to get off the Animus’ ‘table’. “Are you okay, Desmond?” she asks, her fingers flying over the machine’s keyboard.

“No.”

“Desmond. You need to concentrate.”

“I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not. You just need to pay attention and work on the memories that Warren needs to explore.”

“I am. I really am. I can’t stand this place anymore, I can’t stand that guy, I want to break this machine into pieces, and make garlands on the walls from the circuitry and cables. I feel like I’m going insane.”

“You’re exaggerating. It’s not so bad. You haven’t been abused, you have a private room with a bed and the same amenities as a hotel would provide. You get food three times a day and you get to walk around while I prepare the Animus for you. This is not the worst that could happen to you. All we ask is that you focus on working through Altaïr’s memories.”

Desmond rolls off the Animus, striding across the room. He can almost feel Lucy’s neck between his hands. It would be so easy…

“Exaggerate! You think that I exaggerate? This place is a cold, white hell! I have no privacy, I can’t leave, Vidic comes stare at me to wake me up, for fuck’s sake. You think that it’s not abuse if I don’t wear bruises and wounds, but what do you think it means, that I’m locked up in a blank cell, that I can’t take a decision for myself?”

“Look, it’s not like any of this is going to change any time soon. You need to get used to it, Desmond.”

“No! No, I won’t! I don’t want to  _ be here _ . I don’t want to  _ get used to it _ . I want you to let me go, I want to start living my life again!”

“But you can’t. This is not going to happen. You have to understand that.” 

Lucy is starting to twitch, periodically looking at the door and the cameras. She has one hand in her bag. Probably a taser of some sort, Desmond thinks absently.

Not that it matters. He’s not going to actually attack her. He knows that if he touches her, he won’t stop until she’s dead and cold like her precious machine. And Altaïr taught him more than a way to get it done. Desmond might not have the muscle memory or even the man’s stamina, but it wouldn’t take that much effort to kill one single person. 

“Lucy, please,  _ I am going crazy _ .” He won’t mention Malik and Altaïr and that weird dream, but he knows that he’s right. 

She sighs, head lowered down. “Desmond, please…”

“Fuck! Fuck you and fuck Abstergo and fuck all of you crazies!”

He might be screaming by this point.

“Desmond! I think that you should go to your room. Now.”

She hasn’t moved from behind the Animus. She probably has a panic button at hand.

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, hiding his face in his hands. “Okay. Good- good day,  Lucy.”

“Sleep well, Desmond,” she answers, her tone sharp and pointed.

If only. He’d been sleeping well, in Jerusalem, with Malik and Altaïr to look after him.

Desmond shakes himself out of these useless thoughts (there lies madness. He’s already well on his way there, there’s no need to rush ahead) and goes to his room. 

He should take a shower, wash away the sweat accumulated from panicking through desynchronization after desynchronization.

He flops face first on the bed and does his best to block out the rest of the world.

/

Desmond wakes up to the oh-so-nice tone of Vidic’s grating voice.

“I hope that you are ready for the day, mister Miles. It would be… a shame, if you were unable to synchronize with your ancestor again.”

If he opens his mouth, he’s going to scream. 

Desmond pushes himself up on the bed, feeling like he hasn’t slept at all but also like he’s been asleep for days, at the same time. His body is heavy and unyielding, his arms and legs stiff.

“Mister Miles!”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming!”

“Well, move faster then.”

The day is cloudy again, heavy looking dark grey clouds seemingly pressing on the Abstergo tower. It leaves Desmond feeling almost claustrophobic. The Animus waiting for him in the middle of the room is not helping.

He lies down on the smooth metal and watches the glass panel rotate and settle itself around his head. A cold sweat is already making his hoodie uncomfortably sticky against his back.

“We’ll start at the same memory again, Desmond,” Lucy explains in a professional tone of voice. She hasn’t looked at him since he came in the room.

“Yeah.” 

He can’t muster any interest for this. 

The loading screen starts to flash its grey-ish images in front of his face and Desmond tries not to get excited. There’s still the hope that it’ll bring him back to Jerusalem. Maybe it’ll load wrong again and he’ll somehow be a ghost again. He doesn’t mind not being able to speak, he doesn’t even mind losing everything from the modern world. 

It’s not like he has friends or family waiting for him. He’s never made more than casual acquaintances in New York and he hasn’t seen his family in close to a decade. He tries to ignore the fact that they might not be such nutjobs as he’d previously thought. He remembers the references to the Assassins Brotherhood and other stuff that reminds him of Altaïr and Malik’s work. If the Assassins are real… Then the Templars are probably too. And the fact that Abstergo is looking for some sort of information in the memories on an Assassin-adjacent descendant, by definitely not so legal means… It doesn’t take much to make the leap from Abstergo to Templars. 

His hands shake from the grip he has on his hoodie. The machine whines once as it finishes loading and-

Altaïr gets up from the cushions he was lying on, patting himself to make sure that all his weapons are ready.

The Assassin(Desmond) nods at the Rafiq(not Malik,  _ not Malik _ ) working behind his counter, then jumps up and pulls himself on the Bureau’s roof.

Desmond watches, powerless from where he’s tucked behind Altaïr’s eyes, as the man heads toward the market.

/

The Umayyad Mosque is always a sight to see, Desmond thinks. He’s feeling miserable and close to despairing, as Altaïr hops over the roofs of Damascus’ rich district, but at least the mosque is beautiful. 

West of the Damascus Bureau and just south of the great mosque lies the Sarouja Souk Market Quarter. It’s a bit too grand a place for just breakfast necessities. Desmond can’t remember now if Altaïr’s habit of having breakfast with Malik was built and imagined by Desmond’s brain, or if it’s something that he ‘saw’ happen, the few times they were in Jerusalem.

Whichever it is, the point is that they definitely aren’t in Jerusalem right now. Desmond left that special ghost like memory from Malik’s Bureau in Jerusalem, but the Animus restarted the memory in Damascus. 

He tries to shy away from the obvious conclusion to draw, but his mind won’t let him be so lucky.

(Abstergo has made him so crazy that during a glitch, he dreamt of living as a  _ ghost _ with two long dead Assassins and the worst part is that the knowledge that it was all fake is making him desolate and desperate.  _ He misses them _ , he misses the freedom of Jerusalem, the way the Assassins have seen such weird things during their years, that they barely batted an eye at a strangely dressed ghost haunting their home. He’s lonely and he’s scared that when he’ll have seen whatever Altaïr was doing this time, he’s going to be drawn back to fucking Abstergo again and maybe he should try to kill Vidic, at least that would give him a purpose and certainly, it would hasten his end, and-)

Desmond retreats to the back of Altaïr’s mind, halfway through a panic attack. 

Meanwhile, the Assassin goes through with his mission. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter done! I did some outlining for the chapter 3, so I wasn't in complete freestyle, and then I remember why I don't outline: what I planned for ch3 will probably end up spanning ch4 and 5 too xD  
> By the way, I suddenly decided at beginning of July to write for Steter Week 2018. Except that the first day is on the 22nd, so I'm currently rushing to meet the deadline, especially since I decided to try to write something for each day. So the Assassin's Creed fic has been set aside until the beginning of August. I post updates of my work on my Pillowfort blog @AteanaLenn (links in my profile).
> 
> Please, leave a review on you way out! ♥♥

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I have no idea where this is going, lol. It started with 'I want Desmond to become Malik and Altaïr's friend' and also 'time travel is one of my fav trope'. So this is completely self indulgent. We'll see how it goes :D  
> Please leave a review on your way out. ♥


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